3  Jlotlep  f e*t 

SHAKESPEAREAN 
DIVERSIONS 

Pp  ©gear  Jfap  gfoam* 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  DICTIONARY  OF  AMERICAN  AUTHORS,"  "THE 

STORY   OF  JANE  AUSTEN* S   LIFE,"    "SICUT  PATR1BUS 

AND  OTHER  VERSE,"  ETC.;  AMERICAN  EDITOR 

OF  THE  HENRY  IRVING  SHAKESPEARE, 

ETC. 


BOSTON 

Sherman,  Jf rend)  &  Company 


19O9 


Copyright  1909 
SHERMAN,  FRENCH  5*  COMPANY 


TO  THE 
OLD  CAMBRIDGE  SHAKESPEARE  ASSOCIATION 

THIS 
LITTLE  VOLUME 

IS 
GRATEFULLY  INSCRIBED 


2090160 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

The  Sixth  Act  of  The  Merchant  of  Venice  was 
first  printed  in  the  Comhill  Booklet  for  March, 
1903.  The  Shakespearean  Fantasy  now  appears 
for  the  first  time  in  print. 


CONTENTS 

I 

A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY    »     w     :.     (.i     ,.     1 

II 

THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE     .     (.j     M     w     .   49 
ACT  SIXTH. 

NOTE  BY  WILLIAM  J.  ROLFE,  LITT.  D.     .      .63 


I 

A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

SCENE  I. 

An  island  in  the  Middle  Seas.  A  cave  is  seen 
on  the  right  and  before  it,  under  a  palm  tree, 
CALIBAN  is  discovered  sleeping. 

Enter  THINCULO  and  STEPHANO,  quarreling. 

TRINCULO.  Since  the  day  when  the  old  gentle- 
man they  call  Prospero  took  it  into  his  bald  pate 
lo  disappear  into  air  along  with  a  most  goodly 
company  beside,  there's  not  a  bottle  to  be  found  i' 
this  isle,  as  I  am  a  good  Christian,  and,  what  is 
more,  a  good  Christian  man's  son. 

STEPHANO.  Bottle  me  no  bottles,  Trinculo. 
Had  we  ne'er  shared  a  boitle  betwixt  us  we  had  not 
been  left  to  bide  by  ourselves  in  this  whoreson  isle  in 
the  hard  service  of  the  man-monster,  Caliban,  but 
might  be  in  fair  Naples  at  this  very  hour. 

TRINCULO.  Sagely  said,  Master  Stephano. 
Thou  wast  ever  wise  enow  i'  the  tail  o'  the  event. 
An'  thou  could'st  have  looked  it  thus  wisely  i'  the 
mouth,  thou  hadst  been  a  made  man,  Stephano,  a 
made  man,  and  a  householder,  to  boot. 
[1] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


STEPHANO.  By  mine  head,  a  scurvy  trick  o'  the 
King  to  give  us  over  to  a  dog's  life  in  this  heathen 
isle  with  a  man-monster  for  a  master,  and  none 
other  company  beside. 

TRINCULO.  More  wisdom  from  that  mouth  of 
thine,  most  sage  Stephano.  Thou  art  indeed  be- 
come a  second  Socrates  for  sober  conclusions. 

CALIBAN  [awaking]  What,  Trinculo !  Get  me 
some  food,  I  say,  or  thy  bones  shall  pay  thy 
jape.  Get  thee  hence  at  once,  for  a  mighty  hun- 
ger is  come  upon  me  and  I  would  eat.  [To 
STEPHANO]  Sing  thou,  and  caper  nimbly  the 
while. 

STEPHANO  [sings  and  dances  clumsily] 

A  lass  I  had, 
A  lass  I  had, 
But  I've  a  lass  no  longer. 
She's  dead  and  cold 
In  churchyard  mould 
Grim  Death  he  was  the  stronger. 
ARIEL  [invisible']  sings. 

In  churchyard  mould 
She  lieth  cold : 

From  her  dust  the  violets  spring. 
[2] 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

To  her  dark  bed 
Have  fairies  sped 
To  sing  her  welcoming. 

CALIBAN   [alarmed]     Methinks  like  music  have 

I  heard  before 

When  Prospero  I  did  serve.     And  it  should  bode 
Damn'd  Prospero's  return  then  were  I  slave 
Again,  doing  his  will  in  everything. 

STEPHANO.  What  is  this  same  that  sings  i'  the 
air  without  lips  or  body? 

TRINCULO  [returning  with  food  which  he  places 
before  CALIBAN]  Master  Nobody  is  at  his  an- 
cient tricks.  An'  he  be  a  devil,  he  hath  an  angel's 
voice. 

CALIBAN.     Retire  ye  both,  for  I  would  be  alone. 

[Exeunt  TRINCULO  and  STEPHANO. 

ARIEL  plays  softly  on  a  tabor,  scatters  poppy 

leaves  and  departs,  leaving  CALIBAN  asleep. 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


SCENE  II. 
A  room  in  the  palace  at  Naples. 

Enter  FERDINAND  and  MIRANDA. 

FERDINAND.     Admir'd   Miranda,   you   are   sad, 

and  sad 

Am  I  you  should  be  sad.     Then  will  you  not 
Declare  what  canker  eats  your  tender  rose 
That  I  may  kill  't,  or  what  untoward  care 
Weighs  down  your  spirit,  that  I  may  kiss  't  away  ? 
MIRANDA.     O,   my   sweet   prince,   my   husband 

Ferdinand, 

In  truth  I  am  not  well,  and  yet  I  am, 
And  yet  again  I  am  not.     What  say  I? 
It  is  no  fever  of  the  blood,  no  pain 
That  speaks  in  sharp  besetment  which  doth  ail 
Me  now.     Not  these,  and  yet  'tis  somewhat,  still, 
And  when  I  bid  it  down  't  will  not  away. 

FERDINAND.     O  lov'd  Miranda,  ope  thy  soul  to 

me. 
MIRANDA.     'Tis    silly,    sooth,    too    simple    for 

your  ear 

To  heed  't,  and  I  unworthy  of  your  love 
To  waste  a  single  thought  on  it.     O  teach 
Me  to  forget  it  utterly. 

[4] 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

FERDINAND.  O  sweet, 

And  so  I  will,  when  I  do  know  what  is  't 
Thou  would'st  forget. 

MIRANDA.  And  will  you  then  forgive? 

FERDINAND.     I  will,  and  yet  I'm  sure  it  is  no 

fault 
Needing  forgiveness. 

MIRANDA.  You  shall  hear.     In  brief, 

Since  you  will  have  the  truth,  I  fain  would  see 
Once  more  that  isle  where  I  beheld  you  first. 
Might  I  behold  it  once  again  and  but 
For  once,  I  then  were  satisfied,  so  you 
Were  by  my  side  beholding  it  likewise. 

FERDINAND.     Would  I  might  bear  thee  hence 

within  this  hour, 

For  that  dear  isle  I  love  because  of  thee. 
But  our  philosophers  declare  the  spot 
Was  but  enchantment  rais'd  by  wizard  spells 
And  sunk  in  ocean's  maw  when  Prospero, 
Thy  father,  will'd  it;  never  yet  laid  down 
Good  solid  earth  and  rock  on  mortal  map 
And  chart.     How  this  may  be  I  know  not,  yet 
Our  sailors  swear  that  no  such  isle  there  is 
And  truly  they  should  know  their  own  realm  best. 

MIRANDA.     I'm  sure  't  was  no  enchantment. 

FERDINAND.  Save  the  maid 

[5] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


Who  dwelt  upon  't,  for  she  did  cast  a  spell 
About  me  when  these  eyes  did  first  behold 
Her  there,  and  naught  can  take  't  away. 

MIRANDA.  Nay,  now, 

You  jest,  sweet  sir. 

FERDINAND.  No  jest,  I  swear  to  thee. 

ARIEL  [smgs~\ 

Where,  O  where, 
Is  the  isle  so  fair? 
'Tis  far  to  the  east, 
'Tis  far  to  the  west ; 
'Tis  here,  'tis  there, 
That  isle  so  fair : 
O  where,  O  where? 
'Tis  everywhere, 
That  isle  so  fair. 

MIRANDA.     'Tis    Ariel's   voice,   my    Ferdinand, 

but  whence —  [sleeps. 

FERDINAND    [drowsily]     The    voice    we    heard 

upon  the  isle  long  since. 
Sweet  sound,  with  poppies  curiously  mix'd  — 

[sleeps. 


[6] 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

SCENE  III. 
The  island  in  the  Middle  Seas. 

FERDINAND  and  MIRANDA  discovered  sleeping  on 
a  grassy  mound.     Soft  music  heard. 

FERDINAND  [awaking]     With  poppies  mix'd  — 

O,  I  did  dream  —  but  where 
Am  I?     'Tis  strange,  and  yet  not  strange.     This 

place 

I  do  remember.     Here  Miranda  saw 
I  first  — 

MIRANDA  [awaking] 

How  say  you,  husband,  I  have  slept, 
And  all  I  look  no  now  is  chang'd,  and  yet 
Not  so,  for  surely  here  I  dwelt  of  old 
With  Prospero,  my  father. 

FERDINAND.  'Tis  naught  else 

But  the  same  place,  and  we  transported  hence 
Perchance  as  playthings  of  some  kindly  god, 
Hearing  thy  tale  and  loving  thee. 

MIRANDA.  Sweet  prince, 

My  Ferdinand,  then  do  we  wake  indeed, 
Or  is't  enchantment,  and  a  sleep? 

FERDINAND.  I  deem 

It  truth,  and  be  it  thus,  or  not,  in  truth 
[7] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


'Tis  pleasant  seeming,  and  we  twain  will  fleet 

The  time  as  happily  as  when  each  knew 

The  other  first.     [CAUBAN  approaches,  groveling 

CALIBAN  [aswfe]  O  Setebos,  'tis  she, 

Damn'd  Prospero's  daughter. —  Mistress,  if  it  be 
Thou'rt  come  to  rule  the  isle  I'll  serve  thee  well, 
And  Prospero  be  absent.     Him  I  fear 
As  I  do  dread  the  awesome  thunderstone. 

FERDINAND.     Lo!  here  come  other  of  his  com- 
pany. 

TRINCULO  and  STEPHANO  approach. 
TRINCULO.     Behold  us,  gentles,  two  as  unhappy 
wights  as  ever  'scaped  a  hanging,  or  death  by  at- 
torney. 

STEPHANO.  He  speaks  very  true,  as  't  were, 
now  and  then,  and  we  two  honest  men  from  Naples 
be  now  in  most  wretched  case  —  slaves  to  the  man- 
monster,  Caliban. 

Thunder  heard.  CALIBAN,  STEPHANO  and 
TRINCULO  disperse  by  several  ways  and 
FERDINAND  and  MIRANDA  retire  to  a  cave 
near  by. 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

SCENE  IV. 
Another  part  of  the  same. 

Enter  PEOSPEEO. 

PEOSPEEO.     My  charms  yet  hold,  though  long 

disus'd,  for  I 

Pitying  Miranda's  melancholy  plight 
By  magic  of  mine  art  have  hither  brought 
Duke  Ferdinand  and  her  that  so  the  twain 
Belov'd  may  live  their  first  joys  o'er  again. 
Here  shall  they  speed  the  time  a  full  month's  space, 
In  such  wise  as  they  list,  and  then,  at  whiles, 
Will  I  for  their  beguilement  cause  to  pass 
Before  their  eyes,  when  they  shall  sit  at  ease, 
Weary  of  wandering  o'er  the  mazy  isle, 
Figures  of  men  and  women,  such,  forsooth, 
As  Master  Shakescene  writ  of  in  his  plays. 
These  in  their  habit  as  they  liv'd  in  those 
Same  plays  I'll  re-create  for  their  delight, 
Peopling  a  mimic  world  with  mimic  folk, 
And  making  so  this  desert  populous.  [Exit. 


[9] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


SCENE  V. 
Another  part  of  the  same. 

A  grassy  space  shaded  by  palms,  before  a  cave  at 
whose  entrance  FEEDINAND  and  MIRANDA  are 
discovered  playing  chess. 

MIRANDA.     O  Ferdinand,  the  play  was  mine. 

FERDINAND.  I  thought 

'Twas  mine,  but  it  shall  e'en  be  as  you  will ; 
I'll  take  it  back. 

MIRANDA.  Indeed,  you  should  not,  prince, 

For  whatso'er  you  do  it  seemeth  right 
To  me,  and  now  I  see  I  did  mistake. 
Good  sooth,  I  will  not  have  it  back.     I  say, 
I  will  not  have  it  back  —  but  what  are  these 
Tending  their  steps  this  way?  a  halting  pair. 

Enter  NURSE  and  PETER. 

NURSE.     Peter ! 

PETER.     Anon. 

NURSE.  Take  my  cloak,  Peter.  Truly  the 
sun's  heat  hath  made  me  all  of  a  quiver,  as  they 
say.  Marry  I  would  e'en  taste  a  little  food  be- 
fore I  go  a  step  more.  I'll  warrant  you  we  are 
many  a  mile  from  Verona  by  this. 

[10] 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

PETER.  A  good  mile,  I  take  it,  for  I  was  never 
in  this  place  before  that  I  wot  of. 

NURSE.     Say'st  thou  so,  Peter? 

PETER.  Marry,  that  do  I,  and  will  answer  to  't 
before  any  of  womankind,  and  any  of  mankind  too, 
that  be  less  lusty  than  I. 

NURSE.     Peter ! 

PETER.     Anon. 

NURSE.     Some  food,  Peter,  and  presently. 

PETER.  Here  be  strange  fruits  whose  use  I 
know  not.  A  serving  man  of  the  young  county 
Paris's  did  to  my  knowing  eat  an  apple  that  was 
brought  from  afar  in  a  ship's  stomach,  being  a 
lusty  youth  and  tall  and  much  given  to  victual,  and 
he  did  swell  to  bursting  and  died  thereof  while  one 
might  count  thirteen  by  the  clock.  He  made  a 
fearsome  dead  body,  as  the  saying  is. 

NURSE.     Peter. 

PETER.     Anon. 

NURSE.  Thou  shalt  taste  these  fruits  for  me 
singly  and  in  order,  good  Peter,  and  if  no  such 
harm  come  to  thee  as  thou  pratest  of,  then  will  I 
eat  likewise. 

PETER.  Nay,  but  nurse,  good  nurse,  good  lady 
nurse  — 

NURSE.  Hold  thy  peace,  thou  scurvy  knave, 
[11] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


Would'st  suffer  me  to  go  nigh  to  death  for  lack 
of  food  and  thou  stand  by  the  while  like  a  jack  o' 
the  clock  when  his  hour  has  struck?  Out  upon 
thee,  and  do  my  pleasure  quickly. 

Enter  MERCUTIO  and  ROMEO. 

MERCUTIO.  Here's  fine  matter  toward.  Thy 
Juliet's  nurse,  and  her  man  Peter,  quarrelling. 

NURSE.     God  ye  good  den,  gentlemen. 

MERCUTIO.  God  ye  good  morrow,  most  ancient, 
and  most  fair  ancient  lady.  Thy  five  wits,  me- 
seems,  are  gone  far  astray  the  whiles. 

NURSE.  Is  it  but  good  morrow?  I  had  sworn 
'twere  long  past  noon,  but,  indeed,  in  this  strange 
place,  as  one  may  say,  there's  no  telling  so  simple 
a  circumstance  as  the  time  of  day. 

ROMEO.  Many  things  there  be  of  which  there's 
no  telling,  such  as  the  number  of  times  a  maid  will 
say  no,  when  her  mind  is  to  say  yes ;  how  many 
days  the  wind  will  sit  i'  the  east  when  one  would 
desire  fair  weather ;  and  how  many  years  the  tooth- 
less grandsire  will  wither  out  a  young  man's  reve- 
nue. 

NURSE.  That  is  all  very  wisely  said,  good  sir. 
Are  you  that  he  they  call  the  young  Romeo  ? 

MERCUTIO.     He  is  rightly  called  Romeo,  but  as 
for  his  youth,  if  knavery  be  not  left  out  of  the 
[12] 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

count,  why  then  was  Methusaleh  a  very  babe  to 
him,  a  suckling  babe. 

NURSE.  Say  you  so  ?  Then  will  I  tell  my  lady 
Juliet  so  much,  an'  I  can  come  by  her  in  this 
heathen  place. 

MERCUTIO.  Most  ancient  lady,  yon  Romeo 
would  deceive  the  devil  himself. 

NURSE.  Beshrew  my  heart.  Then  were  my 
young  mistress  (who,  to  be  sure,  is  no  kind  of  a 
devil  at  all,  saving  your  presences),  led  straight  to 
a  fool's  paradise.  She  shall  know,  and  presently, 
what  a  piece  of  man  he  is. 

MERCUTIO  [seeing  MIRANDA  and  FERDINAND. 

0  Romeo  the  young ;  young  Romeo, 
Forget  thy  Juliet  but  a  space,  for  here 

A  lady  is,  fairer  than  Juliet,    [pointing  to  MI- 
RANDA] 
And  mine  eyes  serve  me  truly. 

ROMEO.  O  how  rare 

One  pearl's  esteem'd  until  another's  found, 
While  that  becomes  the  chief,  till  straight  a  third 
Shines  forth.     So  is't  with  me.     When  Rosaline 

1  saw  no  lesser  she  might  then  with  her 
Compare.     Next  Juliet  came  athwart  my  sight, 
And  her  I  lov'd,  forgetting  Rosaline. 

But  now  is  Capulet's  young  daughter  sped 
[13] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


From  forth  my  heart  and  in  her  place  this  fair 
Unknown  in  Juliet's  stead  is  worshipped. 

He  seems  about  to  approach  MIEANDA,  but 

is  withheld  by  MEECUTIO. 
MEECUTIO.     Inconstant    Romeo,    have   a    care. 

For  me, 

I  think  her  wed,  and  that  the  husband  there, 
May  have  a  word  to  change  with  thee. 

ROMEO.  Prate  not 

To  me  of  husbands,  my  Mercutio  — 

MEECUTIO.     Have  peace,  rash  Romeo,  thou  — 
But  who  comes  here? 

Enter  OPHELIA,  strewing  flowers. 
Poor,  tearful  lady !     See,  she  weeps,  and  smiles 
Aweeping,  wrings  her  hand,  and  smiles  again. 
ROMEO.     She  makes  as  if  to  speak  to  us,  poor 

soul, 

OPHELIA.  This  is  All  Hallow  Eve.  They  say 
to-night  each  Jill  may  see  her  Jack  that  is  to 
come.  But  these  be  idle  tales  to  juggle  us  poor 
maids,  withal,  for  I  no  Jack  have  found.  Cophe- 
tua,  they  say,  was  a  king  who  was  wed  to  a  beggar 
maid ;  a  pretty  tale  is't  not  ?  But  there's  no  truth 
in't;  there  be  no  such  happenings  now,  for  my 
love  was  a  prince  indeed,  but  we  were  never  wed,  and 
now  he  is  gone.  \Weeps\  He  was  a  goodly 
" 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

youth  to  look  on,  but  he  is  dead  by  this  and  burns 
in  hell.  [Sings] 

He  is  dead  who  wronged  the  maid ; 

He  is  dead,  perdy. 
In  the  grave  his  bones  are  laid, 

Hey,  and  woe  is  me. 

O  my  love  was  tall  and  fine ; 

Fair  he  was  to  see. 
As  light  doth  from  a  jewel  shine, 

His  eyes  shined  on  me. 

I  cry  your  pardon,  good  people  all.  But  there's 
something  lost,  I  think,  and  't  will  not  be  found  for 
all  my  searching. 

Enter  HAMLET. 

HAMLET.  The  fair  Ophelia.  Sweet  maid,  do 
you  not  know  me? 

OPHELIA.  No,  forsooth ;  I  did  never  see  you  be- 
fore, and  yet  methinks  your  eye  hath  a  trick  of 
Prince  Hamlet's  in  it.  But  that's  all  one,  for  the 
Lord  Hamlet  is  dead,  and  they  say  his  soul  is  in 
hell  for  cozening  us  poor  maids.  [Sings] 

He  is  dead  that  wronged  the  maid ; 
He  is  dead,  perdy. 
[15] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


MIRANDA.     I     scarce    can     see     for    weeping. 

Would  there  were 
But  somewhat  I  might  do  to  ease  her  pain. 

FERDINAND.     Her   woe,   me   thinketh,    is    long 

past  its  cure. 
But  look !  here  comes  a  sadder  wight  than  she. 

Enter  CONSTANCE,  with  hair  unbound. 
CONSTANCE    [to   OPHELIA]     Thy   wits   are   all 

disorder'd  as  mine  own: 

Then  might  we  play  at  grief  as  who  should  know 
The  worst,  but  mine's  the  heavier.     You  do  mourn 
A  lover  faithless,  I  a  son  whose  face, 
So  sweet  and  gracious,  made  the  world  for  me; 
Perpetual  solace  to  my  widowhood. 

OPHELIA.  I  do  not  know  you,  but  you  weep  and 
and  so  do  I,  and  surely  that  doth  make  us  sisters  in 
grief,  and  so  because  of  that  I'll  follow  you  whither 
you  list,  and  you  will  let  me. 

CONSTANCE.     Come  then,  and  such  cold  comfort 

as  I  may 

I'll  share  with  you,  but  sorrow's  cure  is  not 
For  us.     Your  lover  groans  in  hell ;  my  son, 
My  Arthur,  lies  within  some  oubliette, 
Far  down  beneath  the  gracious  day,  dog's  food 
His  only  meat,  and  cries  on  me,  his  mother. 
[16] 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

Then  may  I  well  make  friends  with  stubborn  grief, 
Since  grief  alone  the  heavens  have  spar'd  to  me. 

OPHELIA.  Sad  lady,  I  will  go  with  you,  weep 
when  you  weep,  and  be  your  humble  pensioner  in 
grief. 

HAMLET    [advancing]     Ophelia,  stay  a  little! 

What!  not  know 

Me  yet?     Doth  recollection  show  thee  naught 
Familiar  in  these  eyes,  this  face,  this  form? 
What,  faded  quite,  my  love  and  me,  from  out 
Thy  memory  as  the  summer  shower  when  past 
Is  quick  forgot  with  one  short  hour  of  sun? 

OPHELIA.  Love?  I  know  what  that  doth  sig- 
nify. Is  not  love  what  we  poor  maids  are  fool'd 
with?  Thus  have  they  told  me,  and  therefore  I'll 
not  listen  to  you,  for  indeed  I  never  saw  you  be- 
fore, that  I  remember,  and  yet  there's  something  not 
so  strange  lurks  within  your  speech.  But  go  your 
ways,  sweet  sir.  My  Hamlet  he  is  dead,  and  so  I 
care  for  none  of  mankind  now.  [Sings] 

He  is  dead,  perdy. 

[Exeunt  CONSTANCE  and  OPHELIA. 
HAMLET.     Alas,  poor  maid,  I  lov'd  thee  truly 

once 
And  still  had  lov'd,  and  so  had  wedded  thee 

[17] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


With  all  due  rites,  but  that  my  father's  ghost 
Did  stride  between  to  part  us  evermore. 
[Sad  music  heard] 

Exit  HAMLET  slowly. 
Enter  LAUNCE  leading  a  dog. 
LAUNCE.  What  a  very  dog  is  this  my  Crab  here 
for  a  stony-hearted  cur!  Why  but  now  there  met 
us  two  distressed  females  weeping  their  hearts  out 
at  their  eyes,  and  sighing,  moreover,  as  'twould 
move  a  very  Turk  to  pity,  and  yet  this  cur  took 
no  more  note  on  't  than  they  had  been  two  sticks 
or  stones.  Why,  the  Woman  of  Samaria  would 
have  plucked  out  her  hair  in  pity  of  the  twain, 
nay,  so  would  I  have  done  the  same  in  her  stead, — 
yet  what  say  I,  for  there's  not  so  much  hair  on 
my  head  as  my  mother's  brass  kettle  has  of  its 
cover.  A  vengeance  on  't,  now  where  was  I?  O, 
truly,  I  was  e'en  at  the  Woman  of  Samaria.  Now, 
good  sirs,  and  gentles  all,  the  Woman  of  Sa- 
maria had  for  ruth  plucked  out  her  hair,  but 
did  not  my  dog  Crab,  who  by  your  leaves  is  as 
hairy  a  dog  as  goes  on  one-and-twenty  toes,  shed 
even  one  hair  in  sorrow  for  the  twain :  not  e'en  the 
smallest  hair  on  's  nose.  And  the  matter  of  the 
meeting  was  on  this  wise.  This  small  stone,  with 
the  crack  in  't,  is  the  maid,  she  with  the  flowers ;  and 
[18] 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

I  think  there  be  a  crack  in  her  wits,  but  no  matter 
for  that;  this  stone,  a  something  bigger,  ay,  and 
with  a  crack  in  't,  too,  shall  be  the  lady  with  her 
hair  all  unbound;  this  tree  shall  be  the  dog;  nay, 
that's  not  so  neither,  for  I  am  the  tree  and  the  tree 
is  me,  and  this  stick  is  the  dog,  and  thus  it  is. 
Now  doth  the  small  stone  weep  as  'twere  a  foun- 
tain gone  astray,  and  may  not  speak  for  weeping ; 
now  doth  the  something  bigger  stone  weep  too,  yet 
with  a  difference,  and  she  doth  not  speak  for  weep- 
ing either,  and  truly  I  did  weep  likewise  and  no 
more  could  speak  for  my  weeping  than  the  poor 
distressed  females  might,  yet  there  came  all  the  while 
no  word  of  comfort  from  this  dog's  mouth,  not 
even  one  tear  from  his  lids.  Pray  God,  gentles  all, 
there  be  no  such  hard  hearts  among  any  of  you, 
or  'twere  ten  thousand  pities.  'Tis  an  ill  thing  to 
have  a  sour  nature  like  my  dog  Crab's,  and  no 
good  comes  on  't. 

NURSE.  Beshrew  my  heart,  and  that  is  so.  My 
Mistress  Juliet  hath  the  tenderest  and  the  most  piti- 
ful heart  that  lives  in  a  maid's  body,  I  do  think, 
for  she  will  weep  by  the  hour  together  if  she  but 
behold  a  fly  caught  by  the  wings  in  a  spider's  web. 

MEECUTIO    [to    ROMEO]     No,    Juliet,    but    a 
Niobe.     Eh,  man? 
[19] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


ROMEO.  Prate  not  of  Juliet  now,  for  I  do  love 
Another  way  from  her. 

MERCUTIO.  O,  Romeo, 

Once  yet  again  I  tell  thee ;  have  a  care ! 

Enter  FALSTAFF. 

FALSTAFF.  This  were  a  goodly  place  enow,  and 
there  were  sack  to  be  had. 

TEINCULO  [aswfe]  The  fat  fellow  is  verily  in 
the  right  on't,  but  since  the  old  gentleman  Pros- 
pero  did  give  us  here  the  sack  there's  no  sack  here 
for  the  wishing. 

FALSTAFF  [co/fo]     Francis. 

TEINCULO.  I  think  there  be  none  here  by  that 
name. 

FALSTAFF.  'Tis  no  matter  for  the  name; 
the  play  's  the  thing,  the  name  is  mere  hollow- 
ness  and  sound.  Here,  you  fellow  with  the  dog, 
you  whoreson  shaveling  of  a  man,  what  is  thy 
name? 

LAUNCE.  They  call  me  Launce,  an'  it  doth 
please  you,  sir. 

FALSTAFF.  How  if  I  do  not  please?  Marry, 
and  what  is  then  thy  name?  Answer  to  that. 

LAUNCE.     I  could  never  i*  the  world  tell  that, 
sir,  and  no  more,  indeed,  sir,  could  my  dog  Crab 
[20] 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

that's  here,  who,  saving  your  presence,  is  the  most 
hard-hearted  cur  alive. 

FALSTAFF.  No  exceptions,  good  Launce;  ex- 
ceptions are  the  devil's  counters,  therefore,  beware 
of  exceptions.  But  hark  you,  good  man  Launce. 
Fetch  me  here  some  sack,  and  let  it  o'erflow  the 
tankard,  too,  for  I've  a  thirst  upon  me  such  as 
Hercules  came  most  honestly  by  after  his  twelve 
labours. 

LAUNCE.  Please  you,  sir,  I  do  not  know  the 
meanings  of  sack  and  Hercules.  I  did  never  see 
either  of  the  gentlemen  you  speak  of. 

FALSTAFF.  'Tis  no  matter  for  Hercules,  but, 
God's  pity  for  't,  to  be  unacquainted  with  sack  is 
to  have  lived  as  a  dead  man  liveth.  Sack,  good 
Launce,  is  the  prince  of  roystering  blades;  the 
pearl  of  price;  the  nonpareil  of  the  world,  the  — 
nay,  there's  no  fit  comparison  to  be  made.  Am- 
brosia and  nectar  together  were  but  ashes  i*  the 
mouth  to  't. 

TEINCULO  [coming  forward]  You  speak  noth- 
ing aside  the  matter,  sir,  as  I'm  a  true  man. 
There's  nought  to  be  named  i'  the  world  before 
sack,  and  herein,  of  all  places  i*  the  world,  there's 
no  inn,  no  sack,  no  sack  within.  So  you'll  e'en 
[21] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


have  to  stomach  that,  though  you've  small  stomach 
to't. 

FALSTAFF.  Small  stomach,  say  you?  An'  you 
denominate  this  belly  of  mine  a  small  stomach, 
there's  no  truth  in  your  tongue. 

TEINCULO.  And  no  sack  in  your  stomach, 
either. 

LAUNCE.     These  be  as  fine  words  as  ever  I  heard. 

FALSTAFF.  Now,  Sir  Shaveling,  and  who  bade 
you  to  speak? 

LAUNCE.  None,  sir.  I  speak  but  when  I  have 
a  mind,  sir,  and  I  am  silent  when  I  have  a  mind, 
likewise. 

FALSTAFF.  Have  a  mind  to  silence  and  let 
bigger  men  speak  for  you. 

LAUNCE.  Then  I  can  tell  who  will  do  all  the 
tongue-wagging,  sir,  for  I  spy  none  here  that  is 
bigger  i'  the  girth  than  yourself. 

FALSTAFF.  As  for  the  girth,  Shaveling,  that 
cometh  of  sack. 

TRINCULO.  And  pillage  of  the  larder,  too,  or 
I'm  no  true  woman's  son. 

FALSTAFF.     No  inn  within  this  heathen  isle,  no 

sack  within  the  inn !     Is  this  a  fit  place  to  bring  a 

good  Christian  knight?     'T  were  enough  to  make 

a  man  of  my  sanguine  and  fiery  composition  turn 

[22] 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

Muscovite  on  the  instant,  for  your  Muscovite,  as 
I  take  it,  is  a  most  ungodly  knave,  and  an  infidel 
to  boot,  and  without  a  moderate  deal  of  sack,  such 
as  is  needful  for  a  man  of  my  kidney,  how  is 
Christendom  to  be  kept  on  its  legs?  What  gives 
the  justice  discretion?  Why,  sack!  What  gives 
the  lover  whereby  to  gain  the  hand  of  his  mistress? 
Why,  sack !  What  gives  the  young  man  a  merry 
heart  and  the  old  man  a  sanguine  favour?  Why, 
sack!  What  gives  the  soldier  courage  in  the  day 
of  battle?  Why,  sack !  Marry,  then,  he  that  hath 
his  bellyful  of  sack  hath  discretion,  courage,  a 
ruddy  visage,  a  merry  heart  and  a  nimble  tongue. 

LAUNCE  [aside]  The  discretion  that  cometh 
with  what  he  calls  sack  is  e'en  but  a  scurvy  kind  of 
discretion,  to  my  thinking,  for  all  of  the  stout  gen- 
tleman's saying.  Here's  Crab,  my  dog,  and  he  be 
not  so  niggard  of  his  tongue,  could  tell  so  much  as 
that  comes  to,  on  any  day  i'  the  week. 

FALSTAFF.  What  be  these  folk  that  forswear 
sack?  Why,  lean  anatomies  with  not  so  much 
blood  in  their  bodies  as  would  suffice  for  a  flea's 
breakfast.  The  skin  hangs  upon  their  banes  for 
all  the  world  like  a  loose  garment.  You  may  feel 
the  wind  blow  through  their  bodies.  'Twere  a  sim- 
ple abuse  of  terms  to  call  such  starvelings  men: 
[23] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


your  poor  forked  radish  would  become  the  name 
better. 

MIRANDA.     This  stout  knight  hath  a  nimble  wit, 

in  sooth, 

But  yet  he  doth  not  please  me,  for  his  eye 
Bespeaks  wanton  desires,  intemperate  loves, 
That  ill  do  company  his  thin  grey  hairs. 
Soft  music  heard. 

[Exeunt     FALSTAFF,     LAUNCE,     MERCUTIO, 
ROMEO,   NUHSE   and  PETER   by   twos.     A 
mist  arises,  and  after  a  little  vanishes. 
TRINCULO.     A  murrain  light  on  all  unsociable 
folk.     They  might  have  bidden  us  to  be  of  their 
company,  methinks. 

STEPHANO.  Why,  man,  these  are  but  ghosts 
come  from  nowhere.  By  the  bones  of  my  dead 
grandsire,  I've  small  mind  to  turn  myself  into  a 
ghost  even  thereby  to  leave  this  isle  and  Caliban's 
hard  service.  But,  look  you,  Prospero's  daughter 
and  her  prince  are  stayed  behind;  an'  they  be  not 
ghosts  of  the  same  feather  I  marvel  where  they 
have  bestowed  themselves  on  this  isle  since  Pros- 
pero  forsook  it. 

CALIBAN.     Will    you    be    ever    talking,    fool? 

[beats  him}  take  that, 

And  make  your  tongue  a  prisoner  to  your  teeth. 
[24] 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 


STEPHANO  runs  away,  crymg  out  loudly  the 


Enter  the  FOOL  and  LEAR. 

FOOL.  Good  nuncle,  here  be  Christian  folk; 
let's  bide.  The  night  cometh  when  a  rotten  thatch, 
even,  is  a  more  comfortable  blanket  than  a  skyful 
of  little  stars. 

LKAR  [pointing  to  MIRANDA]  What,  in  Gon- 
eril's  palace?  Did  she  not  with  her  own  hands 
push  her  old  father  out  of  door?  [To  MIRANDA] 
Nay,  mistress  daughter;  I'll  not  bide  with  you.  A 
million  murrains  light  upon  thy  unnatural  head; 
ten  million  plagues  burn  in  thy  blood;  a  million 
million  pains  lurk  in  thy  wretched  bones,  thou  piece 
of  painted  earth  whom  'twere  foul  shame  to  call  a 
woman. 

MIRANDA     [affrighted]     O     Ferdinand,     what 

means  this  strange  old  man? 
There  burns  a  direful  lustre  in  his  eye 
And  I  do  fear  some  certain  harm  from  him. 

FERDINAND.     Sweet,  do  not  so.     He  is  but  mad 

o'er  some 

Past  wrong,  and  'tis  the  quality  of  such 
To  take  the  true  for  false,  and  thus  cry  out 
On  him  that's  near,  the  guilty  one  not  by. 
See,  he  is  faint  and  old,  and  cannot  harm. 
[25] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


FOOL.  Good  nuncle,  methinks  the  sun  hath 
made  of  thee  a  very  owl,  for  she  whom  thou  callest 
upon  so  loudly  is  not  so  eld  by  twenty  summers  as 
thy  daughter  Goneril. 

LEAR.  'Tis  no  matter  for  that.  She  is  a 
woman  and  the  daughter  of  a  woman,  therefore 
she  will  spin  foul  lies  for  her  pleasure  and  bid  her 
father  out  of  sight  when  he  is  old. 

FOOL.  Fathers  that  give  away  all  their  sub- 
stance ere  they  be  dead  and  rotten  are  like  to  see 
strange  things  come  to  pass.  An'  thy  bald  crown 
had  been  worthy  thy  golden  one  it  had  worn  thy 
golden  one  still  and  thou  wert  warm  in  thy  palace. 

LEAK.  This  daughter!  O  this  daughter, 
Goneril. 

Enter  KING  RICHARD  II. 

KING  RICHARD.     He  lieth   in   his   throat  that 

swears  I  am 

No  king.     'Tis  Bolingbroke  doth  wear  the  crown 
He  pluck'd  from  me,  but  there's  no  power  can  wash 
Away  a  king's  anointing.     I  put  it  by, 
Being  constrain'd,  but  that  constraining  told 
Not  of  my  will  but  my  necessity. 

FOOL.  Lo !  here's  another  wight  that  has  given 
away  his  crown  [To  RICHARD]  Art  thou  a 
king,  too? 

[26] 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

KING  RICHARD.     I  am,  and  England  was  my 

sovereignty. 

FOOL.  Then  thou  liest  abominably,  for  a  king 
that  lacks  wit  to  keep  his  crown  on  's  head  is  no 
king,  and  that's  a  true  saying. 

LEAR.     Wert  thou   a  king,   indeed?     Why   so 

was  I. 

And  hadst  thou  daughters,  black,  unnatural? 
KING   RICHARD.     Nor  daughters   nor  no   sons 

have  I  to  call 
Me  father. 

LEAR.          Then  by  so  much  art  thou  blest. 
Forget  not  that,  poor  man  that  wast  a  king. 

KING  RICHARD.     My  kingdom  was  both  daugh- 
ter and  my  son, 

And  e'en  as  Judas  sold  his  master  Christ, 
So  did  my  kingdom  chaffer  for  my  crown, 
And  so  deliver'd  me  to  Bolingbroke. 
FOOL.     Is't  he  that  hath  thy  crown? 
KING  RICHARD.     'Tis  he,  my  sometime  subject, 

Bolingbroke : 

He  hath  my  crown  and  kingdom  both,  and  I 
Of  all  sad  monarchs  most  disconsolate. 

FOOL.     Then  have  we  here  a  pair  of  kings  lack- 
ing both  crowns  and  kingdoms   to   wear  'em  in. 
These  be  but  evil  times  for  kings  or  fools  either; 
[27] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


and  to  my  thinking  there's  not  so  great  a  differ- 
ence betwixt  a  fool  and  a  king,  save  that  the  fool 
may  chance  be  the  wiser  man  of  the  two.  Of  a 
surety  there  was  little  wit  a  going  begging  when 
these  twain  put  their  golden  crowns  from  off  their 
simple  skulls.  Though  I'm  but  a  fool,  and  no  wise 
man,  I  were  but  a  fool  indeed  were  I  to  change 
places  with  a  king. 

Enter  KING  HENRY  VI. 

KING    HENRY.     What    sayest   thou    of   kings? 

Kings  are  but  men, 

Cool'd  by  the  same  wind  as  their  subjects  are, 
And  blister'd  by  the  self-same  burning  sun. 
O  happiest  are  the  common  folk  who  toil 
Afield  by  day,  eat  scanty  fare,  and  sleep 
Anight  unvex'd  by  cares  of  state  or  plots 
Of  traitorous  nobles  envious  of  a  crown. 

FOOL.  What  do  I  say  of  kings?  Marry,  I 
say  they  were  best  to  watch  well  their  daughters  and 
their  kingdoms ;  it  needs  no  fool  to  say  so  much  as 
that.  Prithee,  art  thou  a  king  of  the  same  mould 
as  these  thou  beholdest  here  in  this  place? 

KING   HENRY.     At  scarce  nine   months  was   I 
anointed  king. 

FOOL.     Truly,  thou  serv'st  a  tender  apprentice- 
[28] 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

ship  to  thy  business  and  I  marvel  the  less  at  thy 
present  having.  [To  LEAR]  Good  nuncle,  here's 
yet  another  king  out  at  the  elbows,  one,  belike, 
that  shook  his  rattle  as  't  were  a  sceptre,  and  wore 
his  porringer  on  's  head  where  his  crown  should 
have  been. 

LEAR  [to  KING  HENRY]     And  thou,  too,  wert 
a  king? 

KING  HENRY.  I  was,  but  now 

Am  I  a  king  no  longer.     Edward  of  March 
Usurps  my  title  and  my  crown.     There  come 
No  suitors  unto  me,  a  shadow  prince 
Mated  with  Madge  of  Anjou,  strong  where  I 
Am  weak,  for  she  loves  war,  and  weak  where  I 
Am  strong,  for  I  am  joined  to  content 
Which  she,  poor  soul,  wots  little  of. 

KING  RICHARD.  O  let 

Us  make  a  compact  with  this  same  content; 
As  which  shall  joy  the  most  in  it,  that  thus 
The  hours  shall  fleet  unhinder'd  o'er  our  heads 
As  o'er  the  shepherd's  gazing  on  his  flock 
From  out  the  hawthorn  shade.     Or  what  say  you, 
Were  it  not  fitter  pastime  to  bewail 
Our  loss  of  crown  and  kingdom  morn  by  morn, 
Evening  by  evening,  till  at  last  we  died 
Of  grief? 

[29] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


KING  HENRY.         Wiser  it  were  to  strive  to  find 
What  comfort's  left  to  us. 

KING  RICHARD.  Why,  so  we  will. 

Come,  fool,  be  thou  our  numbering  clock  and  tell 
Item  by  item  all  that's  left  to  us 
Unhappy  kings,  brothers  in  wretchedness. 

LEAR.     A  plague  upon  ye  both  that  will  not 

curse 

The  authors  of  your  woes,  that  will  not  vex 
The    heavens    with    prayers    for    their    undoing. 

Curse 

On  curse  I'll  heap  upon  the  heads  of  those 
She  wolves,  my  daughters,  sprung  from  out  my 

loins ; 
The  kingdom's  ruin  and  their  father's  bane. 

[Exit  raving. 

FOOL.  Farewell  to  you  both,  for  I  must  after 
him  that's  such  an  eager  spendthrift  of  his 
curses,  and  may  each  of  you  come  upon  a  kingdom 
to  your  mind  —  when  the  sun  shall  smite  in  Jan- 
uary. [Exit  FOOL. 
KING  HENRY.  A  more  than  common  grief 

look'd  from  his  eye 

That  roll'd  so  wildly  in  his  head;  pray  God 
We  keep  our  wits,  whatever  else  be  lost 
To  us. 

[30] 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

KING  RICHARD.     And  I  might  see  proud  Boling- 

broke 

In  such  a  case  as  his  that  parted  now, 
I  deem  that  I  could  die  full  willingly. 

KING  HENEY.     Would  I  were  dead,  an'  it  were 

God's  good  will; 

But  whilst  I  live  I  ne'er  will  contrive  aught 
Of  evil  'gainst  mine  enemy,  nor  wish 
Him  ill,  for  so  weighs  woe  the  heavier 
On  him  invoking.     Our  good  captain  Christ 
Did  bid  us  to  the  smiter  turn  the  cheek 
That's  smitten  yet  again,  nor  harm  him  not 
For  all  the  mischiefs  he  doth  put  on  us. 

[Soft  music  heard. 
KING  RICHARD.     How  softly  steals  sweet  music 

on  the  soul, 

Shutting  its  doors  to  misery  and  pain, 
Closing  the  senses  'gainst  all  foes  without, 
Turning  the  hard  couch  unto  airy  down, 
Dissolving  time  in  melting  harmonies. 
O  I  could  list  forever  to  its  sound, 
But  it,  or  something  stronger,  masters  me. 

[Sleeps. 

KING    HENRY.     Poor,    changeful-hearted    man 
that  wast  a  king, 

[31] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


Led  captive  by  each  wayward  quick  caprice, 
Unhappy  fate  call'd  thee  unto  a  throne 
As  it  did  me ;  our  kingdoms  suffer'd  f or't. 
Enjoy  thy  sleep  by  music  underpropt, 
Till  waking  show  thee  as  thou  wert  before, 
A  crownless  monarch  weeping  for  thy  crown. 

[Exit  KING  HENRY. 

MIRANDA.     My  heart  is  full  of  pity  for  these 

kings 
Wanting  their  crowns. 

FERDINAND.     Those  crowns  had  still  been  worn 
Had  they  known  truly  what  it  is  to  be 
A  king.     O,  my  Miranda,  only  such 
That  are  compos'd  of  strength  and  gentleness 
In  fair  proportion  mix'd,  should  e'er  essay 
The  sceptre.     He  that  may  not  rule  himself 
Is  of  all  monarchs  least  significant.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. 

A  glade  in  another  part  of  the  island  with  FERDI- 
NAND and  MIRANDA  observed  seated  at  the 
upper  end  thereof.  Nearer  at  hand  a  group 
of  Athenian  citizens.  Enter  BOTTOM,  wear- 
ing an  ass's  head. 

BOTTOM.     Masters,  you  will  marvel  to  behold 
[32] 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

me  here,  but  the  very  truth  of  the  matter  is  that 
I  did  fall  asleep,  and  being  asleep  I  did  dream,  and 
as  I  did  lie  a-dreaming  I  was  in  a  manner  trans- 
lated to  this  place,  which  methinks  is  an  island,  for 
I  did  espy  much  water  anear  as  I  was  brought 
hither.  But,  masters,  I  do  marvel  much  to  look 
upon  you  here  also. 

FRANCIS  FLUTE.  Methinks,  friend  Bottom,  you 
are  not  the  sole  wight  in  Athens  esteemed  worthy 
translation. 

ROBIN  STARVELING.  How  an'  we  be  not  trans- 
lated either? 

PETER  QUINCE.  Robin  Starveling  speaks  well 
and  to  the  centre  of  the  matter.  Know  then,  good 
bully  Bottom,  we  are  translated  as  yourself,  but 
methinks  you  have  lost  more  in  the  translating  than 
have  we;  is't  not  e'en  so,  masters  all? 

ALL.     Right,  good  Peter  Quince. 

BOTTOM.  I  have  lost  nothing  that  should  cause 
you  envy,  good  friends  all,  and  so  I  assure  you. 
[Brays  loudly]  What  say  you  then  to  my  voice? 
Is  my  voice  perished? 

TOM  SNOUT.     No,  Nick  Bottom. 

BOTTOM.  I  thank  you,  good  Tom  Snout,  and 
to  show  you  that  I  am  the  same  Nick  Bottom, 
however  my  visage  may  appear  altered,  for  travel 
[33] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


doth  greatly  age  a  man,  as  they  say,  you  shall 
hear  me  wake  the  echoes  once  again. 

[Brays  a  second  time,  more  loudly. 

QUINCE.  Methinks  your  voice,  good  Bottom, 
has  lost  somewhat  of  sweetness. 

BOTTOM.  That's  all  one,  good  Peter  Quince, 
for  the  simple  truth  of  the  matter  is  that  you  have 
no  such  delicate  ear  for  fine  harmonies  as  I  am  en- 
dow'd  with.  [Strokes  his  ears. 

QUINCE.  It  doth  seem  so  on  more  properer  con- 
sideration, and  I  had  an  ear  that  were  the  parallax 
of  yours  't  were  pity  of  my  life. 

ALL.  Indeed,  an'  'twere  but  pity  of  your  life, 
Peter  Quince. 

BOTTOM.  How  say  you,  masters,  shall  not  we 
spread  ourselves?  [All  sit  down. 

MIBANDA.     O  Ferdinand,  be  these  all  mortal  like 
Ourselves  ?     More  surely  I  did  never  spy 
So  hideously  strange  a  being  such 
As  he  who  hath  the  ass's  head. 

FERDINAND.  Nor  I. 

Belike  he  hath  incurr'd  some  wizard's  spite 
And,  all  unwitting,  wears  this  semblance  till 
The  wizard's  anger  shall  be  spent.     But  see, 
His  fellows  play  upon  his  ignorance 
[34] 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

And  of  his  strange  beguilement  make  their  sport. 

BOTTOM.  Since  it  is  conceded  by  all  of  you 
that  I  have  lost  nothing  by  translation,  doth  it  not 
follow,  moreover,  that  I  have  somewhat  gained  by 
that  same  adventure? 

FLUTE.  In  good  truth  you  have  gained  by 
somewhat,  Nick  Bottom. 

BOTTOM.     I  were  an  ass,  indeed,  an'  I  had  not. 

SNUG.  And  twice  an  ass,  moreover,  should  he  be 
that  would  go  about  to  steal  it  from  you. 

BOTTOM.  Methinks  that  I  could  munch  a  sa- 
voury salad  of  thistles  with  much  stomach  to't. 

QUINCE.  Your  thistles  be  a  thought  too  biting 
for  my  stomach. 

BOTTOM.  'Tis  but  likely.  I  was  ever  a  choice 
feeder.  But,  masters,  was  there  not  some  matter 
toward,  or  have  you  assembled  yourselves  but  to 
greet  me,  and,  as  't  were,  fittingly? 

QUINCE.  You  speak  quite  to  the  matter,  good 
Bottom.  That  is  indeed  the  true  end  of  our  be- 
ginning. To  behold  your  winsome  visage  in  this 
unwonted  place  is  great  joy  to  us  simple  mechan- 
icals, yet  we  be  nevertheless  bold  to  proclaim  to 
you  that  to  shave  were  not  amiss  to  one  of  your 
condition.  For  but  bethink  you,  and  you  were 
[35] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


to  come  amongst  ladies  thus  grievously  beset  with 
hair  would  shame  us  all. 

SNUG.  Mayhap  in  this  strange  part  of  the 
world  't  would  be  thought  matter  for  a  hanging, 
and  that  were,  indeed,  a  most  serious  business,  to 
my  thinking. 

QUINCE.  But  an*  we  talk  of  ladies  and  hang- 
ings, moreover,  hither  comes  a  monstrous  little 
lady,  as  't  were  on  the  instant. 

Enter  TITANIA,  with  her  tram. 

TITANIA.     Where    stays    the    gentle    mortal    I 

adore, 

Whose  voice  unto  mine  ear  makes  harmonies 
Celestial,  and  whose  amiable  face 
Enthralls  my  heart  in  loving  servitude? 

PEASEBLOSSOM.     Yonder  he  bides. 

MOTH.     'Mong  others  of  his  kind. 

COBWEB.     Alike,  yet  different. 

MUSTARDSEED.  Chief  mortal  seen. 

TITANIA   [espying  BOTTOM]     What  angel  can 

compare  unto  my  love? 
Beauty  itself,  beholding  thee,  might  swoon 
For  enry,  and  the  eldest  sage  would  yield 
His  place  to  thee  on  th'  instant.     O  my  love ! 

{Winds  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

[36] 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

Thou  shalt  dwell  with  me  ever.     Oberon 
To  thee  is  but  a  gaping  pig,  and  thou 
To  him  the  nonpareil  of  beauteous  youth. 

BOTTOM.  Good  mistress  atomy,  though  you 
show  somewhat  spare  of  flesh  you  are  yet  of  a 
right  comely  countenance  (and  mine  eyes  do  tell 
me  aught  without  spectacles),  and  you  can  speak 
to  the  point  upon  occasion,  as  the  present  moment 
doth  signify  most  auspiciously. 

TITANIA.  O  I  could  list  unto  thy  silver  tongue 
Till  Time  itself  wax'd  eld  and  perished. 

BOTTOM.  How  say  you,  masters?  Hath  not 
mistress  atomy  a  shrewd  manner  of  observation  an' 
she  singles  me  out  from  the  company  of  my  fellows 
thus  compellingly  ? 

QUINCE.  O  bully  Bottom,  you  are,  as  I  take  it, 
the  simple  wonder  of  our  age. 

ALL.  Right,  master  Quince.  Nick  Bottom  is 
become  a  very  marvel. 

TITANIA.     Fain  would  I  hear  thy  heavenly  note 

again. 

Sing,  wondrous  mortal,  while  I  link  mine  arms 
About  thy  peerless  form,  or  garlands  twine 
Of  dewy  flowers  to  hang  about  thy  neck, 
That  neck,  of  all  necks  most  incomparable. 

BOTTOM  [«in^*] 

[37] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


Upon  the  hay 

Cophetua 
Did  waste  the  hours  in  sighing. 

The  beggar  maid 

Unto  him  said, 
Good  sir,  are  you  a  dying? 

TITANIA.     That  voice  would   make  the  night- 
ingale asham'd.  [Kisses  him. 
Now  must  thou  leave  thy  fellows  in  this  place 
And  speed  along  with  me  unto  my  court, 
Where  we'll  abide  in  loving  dalliance 
Until  thy  mortal  part's  with  spirit  mix'd. 
Peaseblossom !  Cobweb !  Moth !  and  Mustardseed ! 

PEASEBLOSSOM.     Ready. 

COBWEB.  And  I. 

MOTH.  And  I. 

MUSTARDSEED.  And  I. 

ALL.  Your  hest, 

Our  queen,  is  still  our  duty  and  delight. 

TITANIA.     Attend  us  to  the  court,  and  evermore 
Give  special  heed  unto  this  gentleman, 
Anticipate  his  ev'ry  wish  and  feed 
Him  with  the  choicest  cates  the  isle  doth  yield. 
Exeunt  TITANIA  and  BOTTOM,  attended  by 
tram. 

[38] 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

QUINCE.  Were  this  but  told  in  Athens,  now, 
't  were  not  believed  by  aught,  but  we  accredited 
liars  all  of  the  first  water,  and  so  esteemed. 

ALL.  'T  were  indeed  but  so,  and  truly,  Peter 
Quince. 

QUINCE.  Therefore  I  hold  that  (an'  we  once 
more  come  by  our  own  firesides  in  Athens),  we  were 
best  make  no  words  of  the  happenings  we  have  be- 
held but  now,  lest  we  be  cried  upon  in  the  public 
streets  as  those  that  be  counted  no  true  men. 

ALL.  That  were  to  shame  us,  every  mother's 
son. 

QUINCE.  Why  you  speak  the  very  gizzard  of 
the  matter,  my  masters  all,  and  we  will  be  silent  In 
such  wise  as  I  did  perpetuate,  and  as  for  Nick  Bot- 
tom, let  his  goblin  mistress  do  with  him  as  she  list- 
eth,  for  methinks  we  are  well  rid  of  his  company, 
being,  for  ourselves,  nothing  loose-minded  but  so- 
ber, virtuous  citizens  all. 

ALL.  That  are  we,  Peter  Quince,  and  we  thank 
God  fort. 

Enter  PUCK,  uwperceived,  who  tweaks  QUINCE 
violently  by  the  nose  and  exit. 

QUINCE.     O  masters,  which  of  you  — 

7*  suddenly  twitched  aside  by  PUCK.     Re-en- 
ters with  a  lion's  head  on  his  shoulders. 
[39] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


ALL.     God  defends  us,  Peter  Quince. 

QUINCE.  Masters,  it  ill  becomes  you  as  sober 
citizens  of  Athens  to  treat  one  of  yourselves  thus 
unseemly.  Am  not  I  a  simple  workman  like  the 
rest  of  you  ?  Is  it  not  my  very  own  voice  that  you 
hear  but  now?  [R oars. 

ALL.     God  for  his  mercy. 

[Exeunt  all  but  QUINCE. 

QUINCE.  These  be  strange  manners ;  an'  I  were 
a  very  lion,  though  being  of  a  truth  of  a  most 
lamblike  perdition,  they  could  not  have  fled  from 
me  with  greater  speeding.  I  will  e'en  after  them 
to  taste  the  reason  of  their  knavery. 

Enter  PUCK. 

PUCK.     Now  will  I  set  these  patches  by  the  ears, 
Making  such  monsters  of  their  simple  selves 
As  severally  shall  fright  them  when  they  see 
Each  in  the  other's  fearful  eyeball  glass'd. 

[Exit  PUCK. 
Re-enter  QUINCE. 

QUINCE.  And  I  can  spy  but  one  of  my  neigh- 
hours  in  this  predestinated  place  I'll  be  hanged. 

Re-enter  STARVELING,  with  an  owl's  head. 
QUINCE.     Bless  us,  Robin  Starveling,  what  wiz- 
ardry do  I  spy  in  you? 

[40] 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

STARVELING.     Wizardry,  an'  you  call  it,  Peter 
Quince?     Look  to  your  own  head  an'  you  would 
find  out  wizardry.     There's  naught  strange  in  me. 
Re-enter  SNUG,  with  a  bear's  head. 

QUINCE  and  STARVELING.  Save  us,  good  Snug, 
how  art  thou  transmogrified ! 

SNUG.  Not  so,  neither,  neighbours  both.  I  am 
but  Snug  the  joiner,  as  you  might  behold  him  of 
any  working  day,  but  you  twain,  methinks,  are 
most  marvellously  encountered. 

QUINCE  and  STARVELING.  Speak  for  yourself, 
Master  Snug:  we  are  the  same  as  you  have  known 
us  ever. 

QUINCE.  That  is,  I  am  the  same,  but  Master 
Starveling  is  quite  other  than  the  simple  man  he 
was. 

STARVELING.  Thou  liest,  Peter  Quince.  I  am 
but  plain  Robin  Starveling,  but  you  are  become  a 
very  monster. 

Re-enter  SNOUT,  with  a  deer's  head  and  horns. 

QUINCE.  Good  masters  three,  you  are  en- 
chanted, and  pity  o'  my  life  it  is.  'Tis  I  alone 
that  doth  remain  as  much  mankind  as  I  was  ever. 

SNOUT.  An'  you  count  yourself  the  proper 
likeness  of  a  man  you  are  most  horribly  mistook, 
and  so  it  is,  Peter  Quince. 

[41] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


Re-enter  FLUTE,  with  the  head  of  a  crocodile. 

FLUTE.  O  neighbours  all,  what  behold  I  here? 
What  sorcerer  has  thus  exorcised  upon  you?  O 
could  you  be  spy  upon  yourselves  to  know  how  un- 
like you  are  to  plain  citizens  like  me. 

QUINCE.  A  plain  man,  say  you.  Forsooth, 
yours  is  a  very  fearful  manner  of  plainness,  Fran- 
cis Flute.  But  look  at  me,  masters  all,  and  you 
would  gaze  upon  a  plain  man. 

STARVELING.     Nay,  look  on  me,  in  his  stead. 

SNOUT.     Not  so,  but  on  me. 

SNUG.  These  be  liars,  every  mother's  son. 
Look  upon  me,  I  say,  Francis  Flute. 

FLUTE.  Masters,  hear  but  the  simple  truth. 
You  are  all  of  you  deceived  and  have  suffered  most 
horrible  enchantment,  every  mother's  son  of  you 
but  me.  Heaven  help  you,  neighbours,  and  undo 
the  spell  that  each  and  every  one  may  become  as  I 
am.  [Gnashes  his  jaws  fearfully. 

ALL.  That  were  most  dire  affliction  of  any  that 
be  in  the  varsal  world,  Francis  Flute. 

FLUTE.  And  you  were  not  something  other 
than  simple  mankind  I  could  try  conclusions  with 
you  that  speak  thus  enviously.  Indeed,  I  am 
something  that  way  toward,  but  now. 

[Exeunt  Omnes,  fighting. 
[42] 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

Enter  PUCK. 

PUCK.     Thus  have  I  put  the  simple  senses  all 
Of  these  rude  knaves  sorely  distraught,  for  each 
Doth  fear  the  other,  deeming  him  the  prey 
Of  dark  enchantment,  while  himself  believes 
Himself  none  other  than  he  was  at  first 

Lord,  how  simple  mortals  be, 
And  it  much  doth  pleasure  me 
To  behold  them  all  distraught ; 
Each  in  fairy  toils  is  caught, 
There  to  bide  at  my  good  will, 
Roaring,  growling,  fighting  still. 

[Exit  PUCK. 
FERDINAND.     How    like    you    this,    Miranda? 

Hath  not  he, 

The  gamesome  elf,  made  merry  mischief  so 
'Mongst  these  dull  wits  that  scarce  may  they  once 

more 
Regain  their  sometime  selves  and  liberty. 

MIKANDA.     'Twas    merry,    sooth,    yet    I    could 

wish  the  spell 

Dissolv'd  that  made  them  fearsome  to  themselves, 
And  enemies  that  once  were  friends.     He  that 
Hath  friends  hath  treasure,  more  than  wealth  of 
Ind, 

[43] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


And  he  that  hath  not  still  is  poor  indeed, 
Though  all  the  gold  of  Ophir  'long'd  to  him. 

Enter  JAQUES,  laughing. 
JAQUES.     Though  I  be  sworn  to  sadness  it  doth 

make 

Me  gladsome  'gainst  my  disposition 
To  note  the  antics  of  these  greasy  fools 
Of  Athens,  pent  within  the  glade  where  I, 
All  unobserv'd,  have  play'd  the  spy  upon 
'Em  this  full  hour.     How  like  these  fustian  churls 
Be  to  their  fellows  of  the  scepter'd  throne, 
The  ermine  robe,  the  'broider'd  chasuble. 
'Tis  habit  makes  the  man,  the  wearer's  naught. 
The  fool,  when  he  is  naked,  shows  as  sage 
As  the  philosopher  so  furnished ; 
The  lout's  bare  hide's  no  worser  than  the  king's, 
And,  when  their  pride  is  fondly  touch'd,  all  men. 
Are  brothers.     Did  not  each  Athenian  wight 
Beholding  all  his  fellows  in  their  guise 
Most  strange  and  horrible,  yet  deem  himself 
Perch'd  high  above  the  reach  of  wizardry, 
And  sole  possessor  of  a  countenance 
Such  as  is  worn  'mongst  ordinary  folk? 
My  sides  do  ache  with  mirth  when  I  bethink 
Me  of  these  simple  churls,  and  of  their  kin 
By  Adam,  in  high  places  set,  how  each, 
[44] 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

No  matter  what  his  state,  doth  ne'er  perceive 

Himself  glass'd  in  his  fellow's  eye,  but  paints 

Instead  a  portrait  in  fair  colours  mix'd, 

Calls  it  his  likeness,  and  would  have  the  world, 

That  knows  him  what  he  is,  declare  its  truth 

Both  in  the  general  and  particular. 

This  globe  is  peopl'd  with  philosophers 

And  fools,  methinks,  by  which  I  mean  the  wise 

Are  the  sole  wearers  of  the  motley  coat 

And  all  men  else  do  owe  the  cap  and  bells. 

The  lover  is  a  fool  who  doth  proclaim 

His  mistress  is  perfection ;  the  maid, 

Who  thinks  her  swain  compact  of  truth ;  the  king, 

Who  stakes  his  crown  upon  a  battle's  point ; 

The  soldier,  who  for  glory  gives  his  life 

And  dies,  a  forfeit  to't ;  the  tonsur'd  saint, 

Who  vows  to  heaven  that  which  'longs  to  men. 

O,  I  could  moralize  upon  this  theme 

An  hour  by  the  clock,  with  still  grave  matter  left 

For  melancholy  contemplation.  [Exit  JAQUES. 

MIRANDA.     Yon   sober   suited  wight,   meseems, 

doth  make 
A  play  of  sadness. 

FERDINAND.  So,  in  sooth,  he  doth. 

His  wisdom  rings  but  hollowly,  and  all 
His  speech  declares  a  studied  wilfulness 
[45] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


Such  as  we  note  in  him  who  acts  a  part 
That  finds  no  smallest  likeness  in  himself. 

Soft  music  heard,  followed  by  a  dance  of  elves. 
[Exeunt  FERDINAND  and  MIRANDA. 

SCENE  VII. 

Still  another  part  of  the  island. 
Enter  PROSPERO. 

PROSPERO.     Now  have  I  'complish'd  that  I  did 

intend, — 

Dispers'd  Miranda's  sadness  utterly, 
And,  for  a  brief  space,  made  the  airy  dreams 
Of  Master  Shakescene  take  on  form  again 
As  erst  in  other  lands  and  climes,  that  so 
These  married  lovers  might  be  entertain'd 
Full  pleasingly,  and  gather  from  the  hours 
Spent  in  this  isle  of  summer,  honey'd  sweets 
For  fond  remembrance  in  the  tide  of  time. 
My  Ariel !     What,  Ariel,  I  say !       [Enter  ARIEL.. 
Thanks,  gentle  Ariel,  who  hast  again 
Done  all  my  bidding.     But  for  thee  my  art 
Had  halted  ere  its  best.     Once  more  receive 
My  thanks,  who  am  much  bound  to  thee. 
ARIEL.  This  time, 

Good  master  Prospero,  I  serv'd  for  love 
[46] 


A  SHAKESPEAREAN  FANTASY 

Not  duty,  and  I  count  your  thanks  reward 

In  fullest  measure.     And  there  be  nothing  else 

You  would  of  me,  then,  Prospero,  adieu. 

PEOSPERO.     Adieu,  gentlest  of  spirits,  Ariel. 

[Exit  AEIEL. 
Thunder  heard  and  PROSPERO  vanishes. 

SCENE  VIII. 
A  room  in  the  palace  at  Naples. 

Enter  FERDINAND  and  MIRANDA. 

MIRANDA.     O  Ferdinand,   my  love,  last  night   I 

slept 

And  sleeping  dream'd,  and  in  my  dream  I  saw 
The  isle  where  first  you  knew  me,  where  we  told 
Each  to  the  other  our  fond  loves.     Methought 
I  was  by  you  companion'd  and  the  hours 
Did  move  to  music  while  there  pass'd  before 
Our  wond'ring  eyes,  as  for  our  sole  delight, 
A  many  folk,  strange  sorted,  who  did  talk 
Together,  and  at  whiles  as  'twere  a  play 
And  we  beholding  it.     'Twas  wondrous  strange. 
FERDINAND.     O,  my  Miranda,  sure  some  power 

we  wot 

Not  of  doth  play  with  us  as  we  at  chess 
Do  move  the  pieces  this  way  first  and  that, 
[47] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


Because  our  will  is  to't.     Know  then  that  I 

Did  dream  the  fellow  unto  yours  (if  it 

In  very  truth  were  that  and  nothing  more). 

Like  you,  I  vis'ted  that  sweet  spot,  with  you 

Beside  the  while,  and  did  behold,  as  on 

A  stage  a  company  of  players  strut 

Their  hour  or  two,  a  band  of  merry  folk 

With  some  that  wept  and  cried  out  upon  fate. 

Who  knoweth,  my  Miranda,  what  doth  hap 

To  us  when  we  do  sleep?     At  whiles  we  note 

In  slumber  tokens  of  a  life  apart 

From  this,  alike,  yet  not  alike,  and  who 

May  say  how  far  the  spirit  wanders  when 

The  body  sleeps  ? 

MIEANDA.          Would  all  my  dreams  were  like 
To  this  we've  wak'd  from,  for  'twas  sweet,  yet  sad, 
And  not  so  sad  but  that  'twas  sweet  the  more. 
I  would  it  were  to  dream  again. 

FERDINAND.  Who  knows, 

Sweet  Saint  Miranda,  but  it  will  return? 
Soft  music  again  heard. 
[Exeunt  FERDINAND  and  MIRANDA. 


[48] 


n 

THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE 
ACT  SIXTH 


[49] 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE: 
ACT  SIXTH 

SCENE  I. 
Venice.     A  street. 

Enter    SHYLOCK,    followed   by   a   rabble   of 
shouting  citizens. 

FIRST  CITIZEN.     Shylock,  how  speeds  thy  busi- 
ness at  the  court? 
Where  is  the  pound  of  flesh  thou  covetest  ? 

SECOND  CITIZEN.     How  likest  thou  the  judge 

from  Padua? 
THIRD  CITIZEN.     Eh,  Jew,  an  upright  judge! 

thou  hast  my  lord 

The  duke  to  thank  for  thy  poor  life.     Had  I 
But  been  thy  judge  a  halter  had  been  thine, 
And  thou  had'st  swung  in't,  yet,  beshrew  my  life, 
'Twere    pity    that    good    Christian    hemp    were 

stretch'd 

To  hang  a  misbegotten  knave  like  thee. 
[51] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


FOURTH  CITIZEN.     Shy  lock,  thou  infidel,  thou 

should'st  have  had 

The  lash  on  thine  old  back  ten  score  of  times 
Ere  they  had  suffer'd  thee  from  out  the  court. 
FIFTH  CITIZEN.     A  beating  shall  he  have,  e'en 
now,  the  knave.  [Beats  SHYLOCK. 

SHYLOCK   [sinking  about  him  angrily]     Aye! 

kill  me,  dogs  of  Christians,  an'  ye  will ! 
Meseems  the  Jew  hath  no  more  leave  to  tread 
The  stones  on  Christian  streets ;  he  may  not  breathe 
The  air  a  Christian  breathes,  nor  gaze  uncheck'd 
Upon  the  Christian's  sky ;  he  hath  no  part 
Or  lot  in  anything  that  is,  unless 
A  Christian  please  to  nod  the  head.     I  hate 
Ye,  brood  of  Satan  that  ye  are!     May  all 
The  plagues  of  Egypt  fall  upon  ye,  dogs 
Of  Christians ;  all  the  pains  — 

FOURTH  CITIZEN.  Nay,  gentle  Jew, 

'Tis  said  thou  must  become  a  Christian,  straight ; 
Old  Shylock,  turn  perforce,  a  "  Christian  dog !  " 
Now,  greybeard  infidel,  how  lik'st  thou  this? 
SHYLOCK.     Eternal   torments   blister   him   that 
asks. 

[Exit  SHYLOCK,  raving. 

[52] 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE 

SECOND  CITIZEN.     A  sweet-fac'd  Christian  will 

our  Shylock  make. 

I  would  that  I  might  be  his  confessor, 
To  lay  such  swingeing  penance  on  the  knave 
As  scarce  would  leave  him  space  to  sup  his  broth 
Amid  the  pauses  of  his  punishment. 

[Exeunt  citizens,  with  shouts. 

SCENE  II. 
Venice.     A  Room  in  SHYLOCK'S  House. 

Enter  SHYL.OCK  and  TTJBAL. 

TUBAL.  How  now,  Shylock !  What  bitter  woe 
looks  from  thy  face?  What  has  chanced  to  thee 
in  the  Christian's  court  to  make  thee  thus  dis- 
traught ? 

SHYLOCK.  O  Tubal,  Tubal,  there  dwells  no 
more  pity  in  the  Christian  breast  than  there  abides 
justice  therein.  I  stood  for  justice  and  mine  own, 
before  them  all ;  before  that  smiling,  smooth-faced 
judge  from  Padua,  and  with  those  false  smiles  of 
his  he  turned  against  me  the  sharp  edge  of  the 
law.  He  forbade  the  shedding  of  one  drop  of  the 
merchant  Antonio's  blood  —  naming  therefor  some 
ancient  law,  musty  for  centuries,  and  that  still  had 
[53] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


gathered  dust  till  it  would  serve  to  bait  the  Jew 
with  —  and  so  I  lost  my  revenge  upon  Antonio. 
More  than  that,  good  Tubal,  I  lost  everything  I 
had  to  lose. 

TUBAL.  Lost  everything!  Now,  by  our  an- 
cient prophets,  this  is  woe  indeed. 

SHYLOCK.  Aye,  good  Tubal.  The  half  my 
goods  are  now  adjudged  Antonio's;  the  other  half, 
upon  my  death,  goes  to  the  knave,  Lorenzo;  that 
same  he  that  lately  stole  my  ducats  and  my  daugh- 
ter. 

TUBAL.  And  merry  havoc  will  he  and  thy 
daughter  Jessica  make  of  thy  treasure,  Shylock. 

SHYLOCK.  But  there  is  greater  woe  to  come, 
good  Tubal.  To  save  this  poor  remainder  of  a 
life  have  I  this  day  sworn  to  turn  a  Christian. 

TUBAL.  Thou,  turn  Christian!  O  monstrous 
deed!  Our  synagogue  will  be  put  to  everlasting 
shame  for  this.  Nay,  good  Shylock,  it  must  not 
be.  It  must  not  be. 

SHYLOCK.  Have  I  not  said  that  I  am  sworn  on 
pain  of  life?  They  would  e'en  have  had  my  life 
almost  in  the  open  court  had  I  not  so  sworn.  But 
hear  me,  Tubal;  I  will  not  die  till  that  I  have  be- 
thought me  of  some  secret,  sure  revenge  upon 
Antonio,  or  failing  this,  upon  the  taunting,  sneer- 
[54] 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE 

ing  fool  they  call  Gratiano,  whom  I  do  loathe  e'en 
as  I  loathe  Antonio.  Moreover  I  would  gladly  do 
some  deadly  hurt  unto  the  accursed  Faduan  judge, 
an'  it  might  be  so. 

TUBAL.  Then  wilt  thou  still  be  Hebrew  at  the 
heart,  good  Shy  lock? 

SHYLOCK.  How  else  while  yet  I  bear  remem- 
brance of  my  wrongs?  Have  not  many  of  our 
chosen  people  done  this  selfsame  thing  for  ducats 
or  for  life?  Kissed  the  cross  before  men's  eyes, 
but  spurned  it  behind  their  backs?  As  I  shall  do, 
erewhile.  But,  O  good  Tubal,  the  apples  of 
Sodom  were  as  sweet  morsels  in  the  mouth  unto  this 
that  I  must  do. 

TUBAL.     Hebrew  at  heart,  albeit  Christian  of 

countenance. 
Ay,  Shylock,  it  is  well.     It  is  well.  {Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. 
Venice.     Interior  of  Saint  Mark's. 

Organ  music  heard.  Enter  a  company  of  noble 
Venetians  with  the  DUKE  and  his  train,  ac- 
companied by  BASSANIO,  POETIA,  ANTONIO, 
GRATIANO,  NERISSA  and  others.  Following 
these,  at  a  little  distance,  appear  LORENZO 
[55] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


and  JESSICA,  ihe  latter  gorgeously  attired, 
The  company  pauses  before  the  font.  SHY- 
LOCK  enters  from  the  left,  led  forward  by  a 
priest.  His  gaberdine  has  been  exchanged 
for  the  Christian  habit,  and  in  his  hand  w 
placed  a  crucifix. 

DUKE.     Old  Shylock,  art  thou  well  content  to  do 
As  thus  we  have  ordain'd,  which  is,  that  thou 
Renounce  thine  ancient  Jewish  faith,  repent 
Thy  sins,  and  take  the  holy,  solemn  vows 
A  Christian  takes  when  on  his  brow  the  drops 
Baptismal  glister,  and  be  nam'd  anew 
After  the  Christian  custom  of  our  land  ? 

SHYLOCK.     Most  noble  duke,  I  am  content,  and 

do 

Hereby  renounce  my  nation  and  my  faith, 
And,  which  is  more,  raze  out  of  mind  the  name 
That  I  have  borne  these  three-score  heavy  years, 
Since  it  is  thy  command. 

DUKE.  Cristofero 

Shalt  thou  be  call'd  hereafter.     Now,  good  priest, 
Thine  office  do  with  ceremonies  meet, 
And  make  this  greybeard  Jew  a  Christian  straight. 
Solemn  music  heard,  after  which  SHYLOCK  is 
baptized   by   the   priest,   ANTONIO   at    the 
command  of  the  DUKE  standing  godfather 
[56] 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE 

to  the  Jew,  who  makes  the  required  re- 
sponses in  a  low  voice.  While  he  is  still 
kneeling  the  company  converse  in  an  under- 
tone. 

GRATIANO.     I  much  mislike  this  new  made  Chris- 
tian's face 

Nor  would  I  trust  Cristof ero  for  all 
His  Christian  name  and  meekly  muttered  vows. 

PORTIA.     Nay,  Gratiano,  question  not  the  heart 
Nor  rudely  draw  aside  the  veil  that  speech 
Hangs  ever  'fore  the  spirit.     Who  may  say 
That  e'en  the  best  among  us  keeps  a  faith 
Loyal  to  every  smallest  clause,  or  does 
Not  slip  at  whiles  amid  the  thousand  small 
Requirements  of  the  law.     And  yet,  we  do 
Implore  a  gentle  sentence  on  these  sins 
Of  ours,  a  pafdon  that  shall  make  us  whole. 
If,  for  ourselves,  then  trebly  for  the  Jew 
New  come,  bewilder'd,  to  our  Christian  creed. 
ANTONIO.     There  will  be  space  enow  to  doubt 

the  Jew 

Turn'd  Christian,  Gratiano,  when  he  shall 
Give  cause  for  doubt.     'T  were  scantest  charity 
Till  then,  to  bear  with  him,  as  we  do  bear 
Ourselves  unto  our  fellow  Christians  all. 
A  bitter  lesson  hath  he  lately  conn'd, 
[57] 


And  he  were  mad  indeed  that  should  neglect 
To  profit  by't. 

GEATIANO.         Belike,  belike  'tis  thus, 
But  yet  I  do  not  like  Cristofero's  looks ; 
I'll  not  be  argu'd  out  of  that,  i'  faith, 
And  say't  again,  I  much  mislike  his  favour. 

NERISSA.     Peace,   Gratiano,   dost  not  note  the 

duke 

Commands  to  silence,  and  would  speak  once  more? 
Thou  wilt  be  ever  talking,  as  thy  wont. 

DUKE.     Cristofero,    thou    bear'st    a    Christian 

name 
From  this  day  forth.     Then  look  to't  that  thou 

dost 
In  all  things  as  a  Christian,  not  as  Jew. 

SHYLOCK.     In  all  things  as  a  Christian.     Yes. 

[Aside]     Why  that's 
Revenge!  Revenge! 

DUKE.  So  must  thou  quit  thy  house 

In  Jewry,  dwell  mid  Christian  folk,  and  go 
With  Christian  folk  to  church  on  holy  days, 
And  wear  henceforth  the  cross  thou  did'st  disdain. 
Dost  hearken  unto  us,  Cristofero  ? 

SHYLOCK.     I  hear  but  to  obey,  dread  duke ;  and 

thank 

Thee  for  thy  clemency  to  me,  once  Jew, 
[58] 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE 

But  now,  within  this  very  selfsame  hour, 
A  gasping  new  born  Christian,  all  unschool'd 
In  duties  other  Christians  know  full  well, 
Yet  earnest  still,  to  act  the  Christian's  part, 
With  hope  to  better  his  ensample  set. 

GEATIANO    [aside   to   BASSANIO]     For   all   thy 

gentle  Portia  saith  but  now, 

I  like  not  such  smooth  terms  from  out  those  lips. 
BASSANIO  [aside]     Peace,  Gratiano,  let  him  say 

his  say, 
He  cannot  now  do  aught  to  injure  thee. 

[Exeunt  DUKE  and  train  'with  ANTONIO  and 
friends.  LORENZO  and  JESSICA  come  for- 
ward. 

JESSICA.  How  now,  good  father  Cristofero ; 
what  a  pair  of  Christians  are  we  both.  Only 
there's  this  difference  betwixt  us,  good  father.  I 
am  a  Christian  for  love  of  a  husband  and  you  have 
turned  a  Christian  for  love  of  your  ducats. 

SHYLOCK.  Ungrateful  daughter;  Why  did'st 
thou  go  forth  from  my  house  by  night  and  rob  thy 
grey-haired  father  of  his  treasure? 

JESSICA.     Why?     That's  most  easy  of  answer. 

Why,  because  I  desired  a  Christian  husband  and 

there  was  no  coming  by  my  desire  save  by  secret 

flight  from  your  most  gloomy  chambers ;  and  since 

[59] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


neither  my  Christian  husband  nor  your  daughter 
Jessica  could  by  any  kind  of  contriving  live  upon 
air  alone,  we  had,  perforce,  to  take  with  us  some  of 
your  ducats  for  the  bettering  our  condition. 
Speak  thou  for  me,  Lorenzo.  Was  it  not  e'en  so? 

LORENZO.  Old  man,  I  am  sorry  for  that  I  was 
forced  to  take  from  you  your  daughter  and  your 
ducats  against  your  good  pleasure,  but  I  must 
tell  you  that  I  loved  her  as  myself  [.4sicfe]  nay, 
much  more,  my  Jessica, —  and  by  reason  of  this 
great  love  of  mine,  and  because  of  your  exceed- 
ing hatred  towards  all  Christians  did  I  take  her 
from  your  house.  And  since,  moreover,  as  the 
maid  very  truly  says,  there's  no  living  i'  the  world 
without  the  means  to  live,  because  of  this  did  we 
make  shift  to  take  with  us  from  your  house  such 
means,  as  well  advised  you  would  not  have  your 
daughter  lack  for  food  and  suitable  apparel,  and 
since  we  are  now  Christians  all,  what  matters  it? 

SHYLOCK  [slowly]  Ay,  what  matters  it?  We 
are  now  Christians  all,  as  thou  sayest,  and,  I  re- 
member me  that  I  have  heard  it  said  it  is  a  Chris- 
tian's duty  to  forgive  all  who  have  wronged  him. 
Therefore  I  forgive  you,  Jessica  —  for  robbing 
your  old  father ;  and  you,  Lorenzo,  I  forgive  — 
for  stealing  my  daughter.  You  are.  each  well 
[60] 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE 

mated.     But  I  would  be  alone  a  while.     Go,  good 
Jessica.     Go,  son  Lorenzo. 

[Exeunt  LORENZO  and  JESSICA. 
SHYLOCK    [alone}     A   curse   pursue  the  twain 

where'er  they  go. 

A  Christian-Jewish  curse,  since  that  should  be 
Weightier  than  either  singly.     Would  that  I 
Might  see  them  dead  before  me,  while  I  live, — 
Such  love  I  bear  my  daughter,  and  my  son. 

[Gazes  about  the  church. 
These  be  the  images  of  Christian  saints 
Whom  I  must  bend  the  knee  before  when  men 
Look  on.     And  here  the  Virgin ;  here  the  Christ. 
Now  must  I  kneel ;  a  hundred  eyes  perchance, 
Peer  at  me  through  the  gloom.     A  hundred  eyes 
May  see  me  kneel,  yet  shall  they  not  perceive 
The  scorner  of  the  Christian  hid  within 
The  humble  figure  of  the  man  who  kneels. 
Now,  by  the  prophets,  whom  I  reverence, 
And  by  these  Christian  saints  whom  I  do  scorn, 
I  swear  to  nourish  my  revenge  till  those 
I  deepest  hate  are  dead,  or  sham'd  before 
Their  fellows.     But  how  this  may  be,  I  know 
Not  yet,  for  all  the  way  were  dark  as  night 
Before  me,  save  that  my  revenge  burns  red. 

[Choir  heard  chanting  in  a  distant  chapel, 
[61] 


A  MOTLEY  JEST 


[Rises  from  his  knees. 

Good  fellow  Christians,  it  may  hap  the  Jew 
Turn'd  Christian,  shall  yet  do  a  harm  to  ye. 
Behind  Cristofero's  mask  is  still  the  face 
Of  Shylock ;  in  his  breast  the  heart  unchang'd. 

[Choir  heard  chanting  Judica  me  Deus. 
Yea,  my  good  fellow  Christians,  I  do  thank 
Ye  for  that  word,  and  hug  it  to  my  heart. 
Henceforth  it  shall  be  mine,  when  I  do  pray, 
Not  to  thy  Christ,  but  unto  Israel's  God ! 
"  Give  sentence  with  me,  O  my  God ;  defend 
My  cause  against  the  hosts  that  wrought  me  ill." 
[Choir    in    the   distance,    responding   Amen. 
Exit  SHYLOCK. 


[62] 


NOTE  BY  WILLIAM  J.  ROLFE,  LITT.D. 

It  is  a  tribute  of  no  slight  significance  to 
Shakespeare's  skill  in  the  delineation  of  charac- 
ter that  we  instinctively  regard  the  personages  in 
his  mimic  world  as  real  men  and  women,  and  are 
not  satisfied  to  think  of  them  only  as  they  appear 
on  the  stage.  We  like  to  follow  them  after  they 
have  left  the  scene,  and  to  speculate  concerning 
their  subsequent  history.  The  commentators  on 
Much  Ado,  for  instance,  are  not  willing  to  dismiss 
Benedick  and  Beatrice  when  the  play  closes  with- 
out discussing  the  question  whether  they  probably 
"  lived  happily  ever  after."  Some,  like  Mrs.  Jame- 
son and  the  poet  Campbell,  have  their  misgivings 
about  the  future  of  the  pair,  fearing  that  "  poor 
Benedick "  will  not  escape  the  "  predestinate 
scratched  face  "  which  he  himself  had  predicted  for 
the  man  who  should  woo  and  win  that  "  infernal 
Ate  in  good  apparel,"  as  he  called  her;  while  oth- 
ers, like  Verplanck,  Charles  Cowden-Clarke,  Furni- 
vall,  and  Gervinus,  believe  that  their  married  life 
will  be  of  "  the  brightest  and  sunniest." 

Some  have  gone  back  of  the  beginning  of  the 
plays,  like  Mrs.  Cowden-Clarke  in  her  Girlhood  of 
Shakespeare's  Heroines,  and  Lady  Martin  (Helena 
Faucit)  in  her  paper  on  Ophelia  in  Some  of 
Shakespeare's  Female  Characters. 
[63] 


NOTE 

Others,  like  Mr.  Adams,  have  made  the  experi- 
ment of  continuing  a  play  of  Shakespeare  in  dra- 
matic form.  Ernest  Renan,  in  France,  and  Mr. 
C.  P.  Cranch,  in  this  country,  have  both  done  this 
in  the  case  of  The  Tempest,  mainly  with  the  view 
of  following  out  the  possible  adventures  of  Caliban 
after  Prospero  had  left  him  to  his  own  devices. 

These  and  similar  sequels  to  the  plays  are  nowise 
meant  as  attempts  to  "  improve "  Shakespeare 
(like  Nahum  Tate's  version  of  Lear,  that  held  the 
stage  for  a  hundred  and  sixty  years)  and  sundry 
other  perversions  of  the  plays  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  which  have  damned  their  presumptuous 
authors  to  everlasting  infamy.  They  are  what 
Renan,  in  his  preface,  calls  his  Caliban, — "  an 
idealist's  fancy  sketch,  a  simple  fantasy  of  the 
imagination." 

Mr.  Adams's  Sixth  Act  of  The  Merchant  of 
Venice  is  an  experiment  of  the  same  kind;  not,  as 
certain  captious  critics  have  regarded  it,  a  fool- 
hardy attempt  to  rival  Shakespeare.  It  was  orig- 
inally written  for  an  evening  entertainment  of  the 
"  Old  Cambridge  Shakespeare  Association."  No 
one  in  that  cultivated  company  misunderstood  the 
author's  aim,  and  all  heartily  enjoyed  it.  I  be- 
lieve that  it  will  give  no  less  pleasure  to  the  larger 
audience  to  whom  it  is  now  presented  in  print. 
[64] 


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